


Closure

by RovingTiger



Category: Being Human, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RovingTiger/pseuds/RovingTiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between Series 3 and 4 of Being Human, and Pre-Reichenbach Sherlock (although that's less relevant). Annie is frustrated at George's vigil for Eve, and gets Tom to contact a Consulting Detective to try and find out who exactly was behind the helmets...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closure

**Author's Note:**

> First fic ever, so be nice! Thanks for reading. Rated Teen and up for mild profanity.

                George sat in his vigil, watching Eve in her cradle and rubbing his eyes. Annie peered round the doorframe at the scene that hadn't changed for weeks.  Sighing, she weaved her way through the protective minefield of crosses and placed a cup of tea next to the cold and untouched mugs clustered around the legs of George's chair. George didn't look around. Annie rent-a-ghosted behind the cradle, making him start, knuckles tightening around the stakes he'd borrowed off of Tom, who a cupboard full back in his van. She cleared her throat.

                "George, Tom and I have been talking, and although what you're doing is completely understandable, we're not sure it's good for Eve. She's not left the house since, well..."

                George didn't break his blank, red eyed stare. "They'll kill her, Annie. They killed Nina and they'll kill her. We're not leaving the house."

                "I realise that, and we're as angry as you. It might help if...  well we'd like closure, and I'm sure you will too, about who killed Nina. I mean, obviously it's vampires, but we want to know exactly which ones. Tom's especially keen, he's been naming new stakes especially. Once they're... out of the way, you might feel a little easier about leaving the house with Tom, an expert vampire hunter, just to give Eve some air? And we'll sort out the bastards who got Nina."

                George averted his gaze a little from his daughter at the rare profanity from Annie, who was visibly emotional, her jaw set and a tear running down her left cheek. "I would if I could Annie, but how do we do that? They were probably just lackeys, protected and untraceable. The witnesses were all scared off or recruited. And in case you hadn't noticed, the police either won't press the "inter-supernatural-being-hate-offence" charge and or are vampires themselves. So there's been another bloody cover up. We can't seek them out, nor can anyone else. All that matters now is protecting Eve."

                Annie held up a finger. "Well, I think I've found someone who might be able to seek them out."

                "Oh God, who have you told? Have you told them where we are?"

                "Calm down, please. Eve is safe. It's just a detective and his assistant I got Tom to email, and they'll come here to ask a few questions."

                "You hired a bloody PI? And one who presumably doesn't know about us and what we are, or even what 'us' is?" George gulped in panic.

                "He's not a PI, he calls himself a consulting detective, don't roll your eyes, and he doesn't charge. We don't need to tell him the specifics, he'll just track them down and let us know."

                "So you're willing to send a _hobbyist_ after a group of murderous vampires thinking he's just looking for a biker gang or something? And how is he going to be good enough to find them anyway?"

                "He's not a hobbyist, apparently he's the best in the business. He only needs to work out who did it. And if he's a vampire, Tom will be standing behind him with a stake the whole time."

                George sighed. "Have you contacted him?"

                Annie winced. "Yes, and they're driving here now, about half an hour away."

                "What?" George squeaked, and leapt out his chair, hastily rearranging crosses and silver chains. "Why on earth would they come out to Barry?"

                Annie shrugged. "Said it was the most interesting case in months. New mother beaten to death by a gang of men in matching outfits, in a premeditated attack with multiple witnesses and yet no police enquiries or media interest. He was intrigued." Her face fell as she noticed George welling up, and took his hand. "We're getting this sorted out, ok? And I'll be sure that Tom checks all the mirrors and doesn't invite them in. Now drink your tea, go and have a shower, I'll look after Eve until they get here."

                George nodded, breathed in, glanced back at Eve and picked his way out of the room. Eve gurgled a little and watched the crosses slowly spin.

 

**********************************************************************************

                Tom, dressed in his ill fitting shirt and a mismatched tie slipped a worn beige sports jacket over his shoulders, feeling the tips of his stakes pressing into the small of his back. He'd already placed others at strategic and discreet places around the sitting room. He looked up as a slightly less dishevelled looking George pattered into the room and lowered himself onto the sofa. He glanced at Tom, and they shared a nod rather than conversation to their mutual relief.  They each found chatting with each other taxing enough as it was, let alone when the only viable topics centred around the vicious murder of a significant other. As Annie rent-a-ghosted into the room from upstairs, George started.

                "There are more crosses and silver trinkets in that room than in the Vatican, George," she hissed, "she'll be fine for half an hour."

                The doorbell rang, and Tom and George stiffened. Annie ushered Tom towards the door. He opened it to find two men; one a tall man with a mop of black hair topping a face that was all cheekbones and angles, framed the popped lapels of a heavy winter coat; the other a smaller, stocky man holding himself stiffly, but with an open expression and the hint of a smile.

                "Hello! I'm Tom, you must be Mister Holmes and Mister, sorry, Doctor Watson." Tom breathed out as the taller one nodded, handed him his coat and walked past him into the front room after a curt handshake. The littler one with the sandy hair looked apologetic, stepped over the threshold and shook hands. Neither were vampires, evidently, as they both appeared in the hall mirror as they made their way into the front room to shake George by the hand and offer condolences. Annie sighed in relief.

                Now sat down, Holmes, having now revealed his first name as Sherlock, much to Tom's confused amusement, sized up the occupants of the opposite sofa. John cleared his throat. "We'd like to start by offering our deepest condolences." George nodded. After a short and awkward silence, he cleared his throat again. "So if you tell us what you know. About the murder, I mean."

                George shuffled awkwardly. "Around the corner, down near Morgan Street, there's  an alley. Nina had gone to get stuff for the baby from the shop.  She was attacked by a group of men in motorbike leathers and helmets, all black, all matching. They beat her to death with baseball bats." George began to sob. John leant over and put his hand on his, as Sherlock scowled and fidgeted, his eyes passing over the room and the men in front of him.

                "Were there any witnesses?" Sherlock asked flatly.

                "Yep," said Tom, "group of homeless and a drunk guy wandering home from The Crown. Gave statements to the police, but retracted them within hours and according to people round here, they ain't been seen in Barry since."

                "Her death was ruled as traffic accident, although the alley is pedestrian and too thin for cars." George intoned flatly, as Annie patted his shoulder, watching Sherlock scan her boys in a unsettling way, clearly unmoved by the weeping widower across from him.

                John's eyebrows knotted. "Any idea why they would do this? The murderers, that is."

                "No."

                "Liar." Sherlock cut across the conversation. All eyes, seen and unseen, turned to him with a glimmer of panic. John shot a warning glance at Sherlock. Tom shifted a little, his hands a little closer to his belt. George blinked.

                "Excuse me?"

                "You answered too quickly, your eyebrows twitched, you scratched the arm of the sofa a little, your stutter left momentarily, and you made eye contact for the first time. Grief abandoned you momentarily in panic, so it's reasonably obvious that you just lied. You know who did this - but why on earth would you lie? It obviously wasn't you or your friend here who did it, he's clearly not intelligent enough to sort out this kind of hit and you stink of baby; you're obviously a devoted father, maybe a little too devoted, as you're exhausted from days without sleep judging by your reactions. Your grief is evidently genuine, and anyway, few spouses would kill their other half after their baby was born, although plenty have done so beforehand. Neither of you are involved in crime at all, no sign of drug use, stolen goods, etcetera. So why did what was clearly a gang of organised criminals, professionals even, target this woman?"

                Tom and George stared at Sherlock, mouths agape.

                Annie grinned weakly. "I told you he was good."

                Sherlock's eyes darted around the room frantically, before screwing his eyes shut and pressing his hands to his temples. John sighed.

                "He does this, I'm afraid. He could be hours. Look, I'm sorry if he caused any offence, I'm sure Nina wasn't involved in anything unsavoury. You're obviously in no state to lie. Once he's, err, back, he might know where we should look next."

                George nodded, peering at Sherlock, whose eyes were darting about beneath his lids. He was about to offer the doctor some tea when Sherlock's eyes flew open.

                "Hate crime. This was a hate crime. Can't have been anything else. But what kind of motorcycle gang murders up someone like Nina? Oh, but there's something about her to hate, and you two share it. You know what I'm talking about don't you?"

                George stared furiously at floor, while Tom was transfixed. Cursing under her breath, Annie gripped the sofa.

                "Sorry, you lost me there Sherlock. Is this an anti-English hate crime or something?" John's brow had furrows one could lose sheep in.

                Sherlock straightened up. "These two men evidently give little care to their appearance at the best of times, but I've rarely seen clothes worn so carefully as to hide scars, which are just about visible under that particular shirt of Mr Sands'. Very distinctive, as if by some enormous animal with claws, and matching those under Mr McNair's hair almost exactly. Your hands were colder than I would have thought when I shook them, both a few degrees below thirty seven; not itself unusual, but both identical was intriguing. Mr Sands has the bone structure and posture of someone who does little to no exercise, and yet has highly defined muscles. More tellingly, in the kitchen there is a calendar with the days either side of the full moon circled, although you've been careful enough not to buy a calendar that shows the phases of the moon. You don't seem like cultists, and yet you know and mark the lunar cycle as a matter of routine. Also Mr McNair appears to have sharpened wooden stakes stuffed into his belt by the way he's sitting, and was careful not to invite us in and glanced in the mirror at us once we entered.  John, do stop me if any of these begin to ring any bells."

                "Sherlock, this is beyond a joke. Are you suggesting that this poor man..."

                "Is a werewolf? Yes. And so his friend, and so was Nina. It's the only explanation that fits. And I'll take those expressions and the way  both of your shoulders fell as a confirmation."

                Annie yelped at seeing Tom and George slump, and started stammering about this not being part of the plan.

                John shook his head in disbelief. "Even if this is right and you haven't missed something, hate crime against werewolves? How could any people know enough about their existence to start targeting them, let alone pick one out in the street?"

                "This was an organised hit, so it must be a gang. We've never come across anything like it before, so it can't be a common or garden bike gang. So..." Sherlock looked across at the sofa. "There must be other types of supernatural beings. This was inter-species hate crime."

                John, clearly agitated already, stood up and started shouting. "Too much Sherlock. Too much. This poor man did not contact us to hear one of your flights of fancy, some sick joke. And even if you can deduce the existence of bloody werewolves, how can you deduce the existence of any other Scooby Doo monsters?"

                "Easy." Sherlock picked up an empty mug and hurled it at the wall just above and to the right of where George was sitting. John was framing a particularly virulent swear word when his jaw locked open as the mug stopped and hovered in midair. Tom and George, having been in a stunned silence already  slowly turned to Annie, who was holding the mug in her hand and mouthing a pained apology.

                "Two werewolves and a ghost, who kept ruffling the upholstery on the sofa and Mr Sands' shirt, which actually revealed his scars, so thank you." intoned Sherlock to the space just beside Annie's face, looking incredibly pleased with himself, "So it's a reasonable assumption to make that there are more supernatural beings out there, and the existence of vampires, especially in organised groups, would explain at least seven of the twelve cases we've never been able to solve in the last few years. So, Mr Sands, Mr McNair, did Nina just get attacked for being a werewolf or did she, or you, do something to anger them?"

                John stared at Sherlock, stared back at the mug, which was still hanging in the air, and sank back into the sofa. Clearing his throat, George leaned forward and locked eyes with Sherlock.

                "If you both promise not to breath a word about any of this outside this house, I'll explain what I didn't tell you. It's complicated..."

 

**********************************************************************************

                "So it wasn't random then? Nina was targeted."

                "Yep" said George. He turned to Annie. "You might want to put that mug down now."

                Annie, who had been holding the mug since she caught it shrieked and dropped it on the floor.

                Sherlock peered at George over steepled fingers. "So why did you contact me? You knew who did it, and we would hardly be able to hand them over to the police."

                "Also there'd be a very good chance we'd die if we didn't know about the whole vampire thing." John offered.

                "So, unless you want us to find out exactly who did it out of the coven, so your friend here can avenge Nina's death, we can't actually help."

                George nodded. "Well, we'd prefer to know which ones, but it's unlikely that we could actually take them on if we found them. I just..." he glanced at Annie," wanted a little more closure I suppose."

                "Sherlock, I don't think we'll be able to identify them before being found out and eaten, or worse." John said. "I'm not sure we can help."

                "I agree I'm afraid, Mr Sands. Anyway, you've told us what happened, which rather takes the fun out of it. Thanks for your time, and good luck with the revenge thing. I'm guessing the whole coven is implicated, so you might want to have a go at all of them?"

                George sighed, nodded, and led them to the door. Tom waved, Annie went to pick the mug off the floor. Once they had gone, George came back into the room, looked at the two of them and silently headed upstairs. Tom made his excuses, and Annie was left alone.

 

**********************************************************************************

                Sherlock drove the rented car back down the M40. Neither of the pair said anything until Swindon, when John cleared his throat.

                "Just to check, we're never going to speak of this again, are we?"

                "Nope."

                "Great, just checking."


End file.
